A Weekend in the Country
by owlcroft
Summary: A relaxing stroll in the country, a nice sunset, a little chat.  Oh, and a bad guy rounded up.


Author's Note: This story was originally published in the CD-Zine titled "Pastiche a Trois", which was written to raise funds for the S.T.A.R. for Brian Keith. Thanks to those of you who have waited more than a year to read this; many, _many_ more thanks to those of you who have supported our effort by donating.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to someone other than me. Drat it!

To Susan, a generous soul and a patient one, this story is gratefully dedicated.

A WEEKEND IN THE COUNTRY

by

Owlcroft

Mark McCormick cast another anxious glance at the Coyote's gas gauge. It was reading well below a quarter of a tank and here they were on the coast road with no gas stations for miles.

"Judge, we're really getting low. Are you sure we're gonna find a station soon?"

Judge Hardcastle looked at him disgustedly. "Of _course_ we're gonna find a station. Didn't I tell ya I _know _this road?"

"That's what worries me." McCormick shaded his eyes with a hand as he looked at the road ahead. "What's that?"

"There, see." The judge waved a hand magisterially. "_Told_ ya."

Mark pulled into the tiny gravel parking lot and sat for a moment, looking at the weathered wooden building. A sign over the door said "Carlson's General Store" and a smaller sign below it read, "Food, Ice, Maps". There was no gas pump in sight.

Hardcastle climbed out of the car and started toward the store. "Come on. We'll ask inside."

McCormick followed him, stopping just inside the door to grab three small bags of potato chips. He could hear the judge asking about the nearest gas station as he collected two cans of Pepsi from the refrigerated case at the side of the small store.

"Just about two miles up the road. They charge an arm and a leg, 'cause they're the only gas station for miles around." The storekeeper took Mark's purchases, totalled them on an ancient adding machine, cranked down the handle, and said, "Six dollars and eighty cents."

"What?!" The judge looked at the elderly man behind the counter in outrage.

"Man has to make a living," he shrugged.

Mark shook his head and pulled a few bills from his wallet. "Here, Judge. I'm hungry." He took the chips and left Hardcastle to bring the cans.

As Mark stepped out onto the ramshackle porch, a battered pickup truck pulled up to the side of the store and parked. A thin, bespectacled man started to climb out of the truck, but froze as the judge slammed the screen door behind him.

"Can you believe that gouger? And he's got the gall –" Hardcastle broke off and stared at the man halfway out of the pickup. "Gregg?"

The pickup door slammed, the engine restarted and the truck tore out of the parking space, throwing gravel in a storm of dust.

"Hey, Gregg! Get back here!" shouted the judge. He hurried to the Coyote and threw the soda cans behind the passenger seat. "Get going! Get going!"

McCormick winced as he slid into the driver's seat. Even as he started the engine, he turned to Hardcastle to ask, "You want to tell me who that was and why we're gonna chase him?"

"Not now! Just get after him!"

The Coyote roared after the fleeing pickup, nearly spun out on a bend in the two-lane road and straightened out just in time for the two men to see the truck they were following take a sharp right turn onto a dirt road leading up into the hills .

"Judge, we're really, really low on gas." Mark craned and peered to see through the dust raised by the vehicle ahead of them.

Hardcastle was doing his own peering. "I don't care. I've been looking for that guy for six years now and I'm _not _gonna let him get away."

McCormick grimaced as the undercarriage of the Coyote scraped the road. "Well, I can't exactly catch up to him on this road. And if we lose him and we're stranded out here with an empty gas tank, I'm gonna say 'I told you so' all the way back to the highway."

"Look. We'll follow him and when he gets where he's going, we'll siphon some gas out of his tank if we have to." The judge blinked dust out of his eyes. "I've always got a plan."

McCormick throttled back to thirty miles an hour and shook his head despairingly. "Great. That's just what I wanted to hear. _You've _got a _plan_."

After another two miles, Mark said again, "Ju-udge. I really think we better call it off. We're riding on fumes here."

The dust cloud they'd been following was slowly gaining distance on them.

"Come on, we can't give up now. He's got to have a place not too far up ahead and if we let him get away now, I might never find him again." The judge coughed and cleared his throat. "Just follow the dust."

The Coyote bottomed out again and McCormick's agonized grunt coincided with a cough from the engine.

"Uh-oh." He looked at the gas gauge in resignation. "I knew it."

"Oh, come on!" Hardcastle thumped the dashboard in frustration. "He can't be going much further. This is a dead-end road!"

McCormick guided the slowing car to the side of the road, where it came to a gentle, sputtering stop.

"What now, Masked Man?" he asked flatly.

The judge sighed, then hauled himself out of the car. "We walk."

"Whoa, hold on!" Mark pulled himself up onto the doorframe and perched there. "Walk where? We're not going after that guy on foot, are we?"

Hardcastle pulled his revolver out from under the passenger seat, then reached for the sodas and chips on the floor in the back. "Well, unless you got some roller skates back here, we don't have a choice."

"Judge. Wait a minute. I don't even know what the guy's done to have you on his tail." McCormick stretched an arm across for some of the chips and one of the cans, then climbed out of the car and leaned against it. "If this is a dead-end road, then he can't get out without going past us, right? So why don't we head back to the highway –"

"Do you have to argue with everything?" shouted the judge. "I want that guy, ya hear me? I think he shot a cop and I don't want him getting away!"

McCormick shook his head. "Look. If he did shoot somebody, then he's probably not going to be shy about shooting _us_. If we go heading after him with one gun, no car, no back-up, nobody even knowing we're back here, then all he has to do is wait us out. And, no . . ." he held up a hand, "we're _not _splitting up."

"Sure." Hardcastle nodded enthusiastically. "Okay. I'll go after him and you head back for gas and the cops."

"Nope."

"Willya, for cryin' out loud, just _do_ what I _tell _ya?"

"No." Mark walked around the back of the Coyote and faced the judge. "Just suppose this guy managed to get past you. There I am, the guy that was sitting next to you, taking a stroll. I'd be road kill. No way." He opened the trunk and took a small canvas bag from it. "Come on, let's go."

McCormick started back the way they'd come, opening one of the two bags of chips he'd taken from the judge. He looked back at the aggravated man beside the Coyote.

"Sooner we get somewhere, sooner we can come back."

Hardcastle looked at him venomously, then started to follow, opening his own chips.

The chips were eaten without comment. Mark cautiously popped the lid of his Pepsi, foam dripping onto the dust as he walked. He offered it to the judge, who refused with a gesture. Mark shrugged and drank half of it before lowering it again.

"Here, you have the rest." He passed the can to the judge and shifted his grip on the canvas bag he carried.

Hardcastle took a sip and kept walking silently.

After a few minutes, the judge sighed and said, "What's in the bag?"

McCormick grinned slightly. "The three S's, a can opener, flashlight, cigarette lighter, twenty-dollar bill, bottle of aspirin, two candy bars and one of those multi-purpose knives."

"Three S's?"

"Socks, shorts, shirt." Mark switched hands. "After a couple of adventures in the wilderness with you, I figured it wouldn't hurt to keep something like this in the Coyote."

"Huh." Hardcastle took another half-dozen steps, then halted. "You got _my _'three S's' in there, too?"

"Mm-hm. Snuck 'em out of the laundry a while ago. _What's that?_" McCormick came to a dead stop and pointed at a power pole about fifty feet ahead.

"Oh, look at that," said the judge in an admiring tone. "That's a bald eagle, kiddo." He smiled back at his companion. "You never saw one before, huh?"

"It's _huge_," said Mark softly. "I never knew they were that big." He couldn't take his eyes off the enormous bird. "I didn't know they lived around here, either."

The judge was also intently watching the eagle. "Oh, yeah. There's a lake, well, a reservoir actually, on the other side of the hills here. You know eagles eat fish, right?"

"Yeah. Man, that thing is impressive."

"If you stood next to one, it'd probably come up to about hip-high on ya." Hardcastle cocked his head and thought. "I knew a guy once said an eagle had killed a new-born calf. Farmers around here probably don't feel the same way the rest of us do about them, but they sure are majestic, aren't they? "

The eagle dropped from the power pole and snapped open wings that measured at least six feet from tip to tip. Both men heard the rustle of pinions as it soared over them.

"There, that's your nature lesson for the day." The judge started walking again.

"Wow." A bemused McCormick followed him.

"So," said the judge as Mark caught up with him, "I guess I oughta tell you about this Gregg guy."

"You said you thought he shot a cop."

"Yeah. About six years ago. Cop was working undercover on a drug operation and turned up shot in an empty warehouse down near the docks. Gary Gregg was a suspect, but there was no credible evidence against him. Hang on." Hardcastle stopped and leaned a hand on McCormick's shoulder for balance as he dug a pebble out of his boot. "He was the guy that was probably in charge of the operation under investigation, and he was the guy who disappeared right afterward. And I mean _disappeared_. You know how everybody feels about a cop-killer. Every cop in the state was on the look-out for him, but he just vanished."

McCormick looked at the judge. "Judge, don't take this the wrong way –"

"Oh, I _love _it when somebody says that, 'cause you know it's gonna be something insulting."

"No, I just want you to tell me you're absolutely, one hundred percent sure that's who that guy is." Mark raised his eyebrows questioningly. "I mean, if some stranger started yelling at me and pointing fingers and acting like a lunatic, I might run away, too."

"It's him," said the judge definitively.

"Okay. Here, you wanna split these?" McCormick held out the last bag of potato chips.

"No, you have 'em." Hardcastle marched on, deep in thought. "You know, if he comes back out before we hit the highway, we oughta have a plan to stop him."

"Well," said Mark through a mouthful of potato chips, "you could try pointing Ol' Millie at him and yelling 'Halt, in the name of the law'."

"Something like that, maybe," agreed the judge. "But if he's armed, and he recognized me, he's not gonna stop come hell or high water."

"You're the guy making the plans, oh, and by the way – I told you so." McCormick smirked broadly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Hardcastle grumbled. "Okay. We'll head for cover by the side of the road and I'll shoot out his tires. How's that?"

Mark shoved the empty bag into a side pocket of his canvas carry-all. "All right if you don't miss. Hey, give me a minute." He dropped the bag and headed off the road a bit. Looking back at the judge, he grinned, "I gotta take a lick."

Hardcastle groaned. "Oh, don't start that again."

"No picking, now!"

The judge grimaced, then responded, "Fine, I'll turn my back so you don't think I'm snicking a pick."

McCormick laughed and said, "I bet it took you all wick to think that up."

Hardcastle gave up trying not to snicker.

"So how come you know so much about this area, anyway?" asked Mark as he rejoined the judge.

"Ah, we used to come this way whenever we went to Monterey – me and Nancy." They resumed walking. "She loved to drive up the coast and sometimes we'd take a detour across the Santa Lucias to a little town, maybe San Ardo or Jolon. Did you know the third oldest mission in California is in Jolon?"

"Nope. Ho-lone?"

"J-O-L-O-N. Not even really a town there anymore, just a general store and the mission. The army's got a place up there now where they practice parachute jumps and stuff." Hardcastle smiled and looked reminiscent. "She loved walking under the live oaks and watching the ground squirrels. Then we'd go up to Monterey and eat Dungeness crab and walk along the wharf." He sighed, still smiling.

"Yeah, well, that's where we should be right about now." McCormick looked around at the empty fields and sighed himself. "Watching pelicans and seals, drinking something with a paper umbrella in it and trying to decide between the Captain's Platter and the Surf 'n' Turf."

"All right, it's all my fault you're stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. Okay? Is that what you wanted me to say? Huh?"

"No. Actually, what I _wanted _you to say was that you had a spare can of gas in your pocket." McCormick squinted ahead. "Is that a house back there?" He pointed to the left. "Behind those trees. Isn't that a house?"

"Yeah, I think so." The judge raised a hand to shade his eyes. "Looks deserted, though. See? No lines on the power poles." He considered for a moment. "Let's go check it out."

McCormick followed him down the weed-overgrown lane leading to the abandoned homestead. "Hold it, Judge. Hang on a minute. Won't there be snakes around here?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Just watch where you walk. They wouldn't usually be out this time of day though." He looked up at the sky and asked, "What time is it?"

Mark frowned at him. "What? Did you forget how to tell time?" He glanced at his watch. "It's just after five."

"Okay, so the sun's not gonna set 'til around seven, but it'll start getting dark here in another half-hour or so because we're behind those hills." The judge waved desultorily toward the bumps on the horizon. "So, we can get settled here and use this as cover for our ambush. It's only about thirty or so yards from the road." He stepped carefully over a roll of rusted barbed wire. "Watch your step."

"No kidding," muttered McCormick.

They surveyed the weed-filled yard surrounding an old adobe house. The front door was missing; the glass in the windows had shattered years before. An air of desolation hung over the decaying property.

"Right," Judge Hardcastle said in a pleased tone. "Here's what we'll do. We'll set up camp in the house, right next to the door. We'll be able to hear the truck coming for quite a ways and once he's in range, I'll take out his tires. Maybe we could put some of that barbed wire across the road, too. Take no chances on his getting through. What are you doing, McCormick?"

The younger man was delicately picking his way toward the rotted and fragmented porch.

Just as he reached the empty doorframe, Mark heard a cry of pain from the judge. He whirled to see Hardcastle hopping on one foot, arms flailing for balance. He leaped off the porch and grabbed the judge's left arm, just above the elbow.

"Damn, damn, dammit, _dammit_!" shouted Hardcastle.

"What?!" shouted a panicky McCormick. "Was it a snake? Where is it? Oh, my God. Where did it get you?"

"No, it's not a damned snake! Ow, dammit, dammit!"

Mark led him, hopping, to the ramshackle porch and lowered him carefully. "Well, what then? Come on, Judge. You're scaring me here."

"I stepped on something, get this boot off, I'm bleeding all over the place." Hardcastle gingerly eased his right foot out of the cowboy boot and looked at the blood already soaking his sock.

McCormick whistled and showed him the shard of glass that had penetrated the boot and his foot. "Let me see your foot." He shook his head. "Not good, Kemo Sabe. That'll probably need stitches." He dropped the boot and opened his canvas bag to rummage for impromptu bandages. "I thought _you_ were the one telling _me_ to watch where I stepped."

Hardcastle took the socks from him and wrapped them around his foot. He grunted in pain when Mark took over the wrapping and pressed on the wound. "Hey! Not so hard! And I _was_ watching! You distracted me by prancing around –"

"Now wait a minute. You're not gonna blame this on _me_. Here, use this one, too." McCormick handed him the last of the spare socks. "I wasn't doing anything and you know it. You just got careless and don't want to admit it." He inspected the bulky sock-bandage critically. "Next time I'm packing bandages, too. You know, you're not gonna be able to walk on that."

"No kidding," said the judge morosely. "Dammit." He breathed deeply for a moment, then said, "All right. You get going and bring some help back here. Take this."

Mark looked at the gun in disbelief. "Are you nuts?" He made no move to take the gun from the judge.

"What's the matter with you?" Hardcastle demanded testily. "Go on, take it! It's up to you now to stop Gregg from getting away." He pushed to the revolver at McCormick again.

"No way, San Jose. Put it away, Judge." Mark gingerly inspected the thickly-wound socks. "It looks like the bleeding's slowing down a little. You think you could hop inside if I helped you?" He tilted his head toward the doorway.

The judge scowled at him, then nodded. "Okay. We'll get me settled and then you take off, ya hear?"

"We'll get you settled and then we'll talk about it."

McCormick put his hands out for the judge to grab, then helped lift him up. Slowly, they maneuvered through the doorway to the nearly empty room beyond.

"There, on the stones." Hardcastle pointed to the hearth rising slightly more than a foot above the dirt floor. "Just watch where you put your feet."

McCormick snorted. "We've done this part already, Judge. You just watch your own feet." He deposited the older man carefully on the filthy stone hearth, then proceeded to paw through the canvas carry-all.

"Here." He handed Hardcastle the other can of soda and a spare shirt. "It's cooler in here. Put that on."

Grumbling under his breath, the judge put on the long-sleeved shirt and opened the can of Pepsi. After a quick sip, he handed the can to Mark, who had the flashlight and the chocolate bars out now.

"All right, listen." The judge paused to make sure he had McCormick's attention.

"Yeah, okay, go ahead." Mark handed him one of the chocolate bars and settled next to him on the chilly stones.

"The important thing here is to stop Gregg from doing another disappearing act, okay?"

"No, the important thing is to make sure your foot stops bleeding and then get you to a doctor. When was your last tetanus shot?"

"I don't know! A coupla years, I guess, but that can wait. Now listen." Hardcastle adjusted his position slightly and took back the Pepsi for another swig. "I can't walk, but we're gonna stick to the plan, see? You head out to the highway, flag down a car, get the cops here and then we'll worry about my damn foot. And you have to take the gun because you don't want to be road kill, right?"

McCormick finished his candy bar and held out his hand for the Pepsi. "Wrong. If you think I'm leaving you here alone, unarmed, with some guy out there who knows you're after him, you need to save up for a ticket on the clue bus. Look, Judge, Gregg's not going to stay holed up back there. He could be on his way out now –"

"Which is why you gotta get back out there, with Ol' Millie, and take care of it for me! If he comes along before you reach the road, you stop him;_ you_ can make a citizen's arrest, too, ya know." Hardcastle's tone changed from belligerent to nearly plaintive. "Come on. I'm gonna be okay here. Look, the bleeding's stopped. I can just stay here 'til you get back and you can nail this guy for me."

Mark sighed and closed his eyes. After a moment, he tried again. "Yes, I could probably 'nail the guy for you'. I could probably stop him and get him to the highway and flag down some law-abiding citizen who would get the cops. _But_, if he knows about this place, and I'm sure he does, he'll check it out, Judge. It's an obvious place for us to ambush him and he'll come in here and find you sitting here like a wounded goose and then what's your plan? Throw mouse droppings at him?"

"No," said Hardcastle defensively. "I'll think of something before he gets here."

"Oh."

"So what're you waiting for? Take this," the judge tried again to hand Mark the gun, "and get going."

McCormick shook his head and leaned back from the firearm. "I'm waiting for you to think of something. Hardcastle, you are the biggest donkey in creation, but this time I am going to out-donkey you." He folded his arms over his chest and stared at the judge.

"Aw, for cryin' out _loud_! Would ya just, for _once_, just do what I tell ya to?"

Mark shook his head again and said nothing.

Hardcastle put his hands on the stone hearth and pushed himself upright. "Okay, fine! I'll do it myself," he spat.

"Ju-udge!" McCormick grabbed the judge's arm just as he teetered. He pulled the angry man back onto the stones and stood over him. "Don't _do_ that!"

"Well, I'm _not _gonna let this guy get away again. So you just get out there and start walking or get out of my way." Hardcastle stared up at the younger man in defiance.

McCormick threw his head back and rolled his eyes in exasperation. He took a deep breath, then sat back down next to the judge.

"All right, you listen to me. And I don't want to hear any interruptions, got that?" He glared at Hardcastle, then went on. "Suppose your plan works. Suppose Gregg comes roaring down the road and I shoot out his tires or just aim at him through the windshield and he gives himself up. Great. Then I take him to the road and we get help and come back here and pick you up and collect the Coyote and everybody's happy."

Hardcastle started to speak, but McCormick held up a hand.

"No interruptions. Now," he stopped abruptly, compressing his lips together for a moment. "Suppose," he resumed, speaking slowly, "everything happens just like that, but Gregg paid a little visit to this shack while I'm a mile down the road. Just think about that, Judge. Everything goes just fine, but I come back here and find you dead."

Once again, Hardcastle opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled by McCormick.

"I want you to think about that, Hardcastle. I want you to imagine me coming back here and finding you like that." Mark sat quietly for a few seconds, then went on. "Do you know what that would do to me? Do you think I could live with that kind of guilt? With that memory? Think about it, Judge. How could I possibly deal with that?"

There was complete silence for nearly two minutes, neither man looking at the other. Then Hardcastle heaved a deep sigh and spoke.

"Okay. I understand." He picked at the mortar coming loose on the hearth and spoke quietly. "But you can't let this guy get away just because there's a chance I might be in danger. That's not the way we work. If there's a job to be done, we do it, right?"

McCormick looked at him and waited.

"So, in this case, I _can't _do the job, so it has to be you. The fact that there's danger . . . to _me_ . . . has nothing to do with it."

Mark cleared his throat meaningfully, but said nothing.

"Well, it _shouldn't _have anything to do with it." The judge rubbed his nose and though for a moment. "I guess, when I made you my proposition, I never spelled out the risks involved, did I? I mean, I figured you'd be smart enough to know it could get hairy at times, and you never said anything about feeling I'd misled you. So, I thought it was just understood that sometimes the bad guys would come after us or we'd get into something that could jump up and bite us." He threw a small chunk of mortar onto the floor. "I'm not trying to re-write the rules here. Catching bad guys is serious business and it's _my _business. It's been your business, too, for a couple of years."

"I'm not saying I want to change that, Judge." McCormick slanted a look at the other man. "I'm just telling you I'm not going to take a chance like that just to stop this one guy. That's all."

"But you _have_ to, see? Otherwise it all falls apart and stops meaning anything." Hardcastle grunted at the look of confusion on McCormick's face. "What I mean is, if we start holding back and making exceptions, then we're not really doing the job right. And that cheapens what we do. Makes it seem like a hobby or something, instead of serious work." He shook his head in frustration. "I can't explain it right."

"No, I think I see what you mean," said McCormick quietly. "But you see _my_ point, too, right?"

"Yeah. I know what you're saying." The judge tentatively wiggled his foot and grimaced in pain. "Look. I'm in charge and I could just tell you to do it, and if you didn't , then we'd scream and yell and eventually one of us would give in, but that's not what I want. I want you to consider this." He stopped briefly, wiped a hand across his mouth, then said, "What you're doing is putting my life ahead of justice. You're saying my life is more important than the cause I've devoted that life to, and I don't want that. I can't agree with that and I don't want you thinking that. Okay?"

Mark sat, staring at the floor. Hardcastle waited for a full minute, then added, "I know that's not an easy thing, for you or anybody. Lady Justice isn't just a tough old broad. She's also a harsh mistress. But she's the cause I serve."

McCormick shifted, then looked at the judge. "Can I at least leave you the flashlight?"

"Nope," grinned Hardcastle. "It'll probably be dark by the time you hit the highway and you're gonna need it. Now get going, will ya?"

"Okay," Mark sighed and took the revolver from the judge. "But you be as careful as you can be, you hear me? I'll be as fast as I can and if you hear a truck . . ." He looked around the darkening room. "Well, try to blend in."

The judge snorted in amusement. "Will do. Now, get!"

Reluctantly, Mark headed for the door, then stopped abruptly. He turned back to Hardcastle and took off the chain he always wore around his neck.

"Here." He extended a hand to the astonished judge. "Take it."

Hardcastle put out a hand and Mark dropped the chain and medal onto his palm.

"You keep that until I get back." McCormick turned again to the door and vanished into the dusk. Various soft rustlings followed as he made his way through the overgrown yard.

The judge sat for a few minutes, looking at the medal and chain in his hand, then put them in his shirt pocket. He pulled the canvas bag closer to him and investigated the contents, until he found the multi-purpose knife. "Should've had him wear the extra shirt," he muttered. "Oh, well."

Hardcastle made himself as comfortable as possible on the cold stones and leaned back against the wall of the fireplace. Now that McCormick was on his way, the quiet was nearly complete. A meadowlark sang its farewell to the day and the wind produced some pine surf from the trees.

Evening settled in and so did the judge.

Mice rattled through the dry grasses in the yard while bats soared and dipped in the slowly darkening sky. An owl screeched softly in the distance. Then a board on the porch creaked.

Hardcastle quietly opened the largest blade of the knife in his hand and waited.

A shadow formed in the doorway, backlit by the twilight; then a flash of light stabbed into the room.

"Well, well. Looks like it's not me that's the sitting duck anymore." The dark form behind the flashlight came cautiously into the small room sending the beams of light into every corner. "Where's the other guy?"

"He left," said the judge calmly. "I hurt my foot and he hightailed it out of here."

"You got to learn to pick your partners a little better, Hardcase." The flashlight came to rest on the hearth. "'Course that's not gonna matter any more, is it?"

"I don't know; is it? So far, all we got on you is violation of parole. You say anything else like that and we could add assault. You want to think about this, Gregg." Hardcastle kept his left hand close, in the shadows. "You could take off right now and just keep going. But if you do something stupid, every cop in the state'll be on your tail again, and this time you won't find a place to hide."

"I tell you what," said Gregg sneeringly, "why don't you just let me worry about that, okay?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Your choice." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another shadow move in the doorway and realized McCormick was standing there, waiting for a chance to grab the rifle Gregg had aimed at him.

"Just tell me one thing, Gregg." The judge shaded his eyes from the flashlight with his right hand. "How did –" With his left hand, he threw the knife into the corner and shouted, "What was that?"

Gregg whirled, flashlight and rifle focused on the corner. McCormick reached out a long arm and grabbed the rifle barrel, pushing it up while kicking Gregg in the back of the knee.

Hardcastle limped off the hearth and took hold of Gregg's arm as he fell past and wrenched the flashlight away from him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he yelled.

"Which one of us are you asking, Judge?" McCormick turned on his own flashlight and handed it to Hardcastle. "Here. Get that t-shirt out of the bag and we'll tie him up."

"Knife's over there, if you want to cut the shirt into strips." The judge ignored the cursing from Gregg and pointed with the flashlight beam toward the knife.

McCormick collected the knife and handed Ol' Millie to Hardcastle. "Gregg's truck's just at the end of the lane. You think you could make it that far with a little help?"

The judge had both light and gun trained on the man on the ground in front of him. "Yeah, I think maybe I could just barely manage that," he said in a sarcastic tone. Then he bellowed, "Now, what the hell are you doing back here? You should be most of the way to the road by now."

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm doing what I always do. I'm saving your life."

Epilogue

An anxious McCormick hovered over the judge as he carefully seated himself at the table by the window.

"You okay? You settled in all right?"

"Would you stop _fussing_ over me!" Hardcastle pulled his chair up to the table and took the menu from the waiter. "Thank you," he said politely to the waiter.

"I'm not fussing," McCormick said defensively. He seated himself opposite the judge. He took a menu and asked Hardcastle, "You want something to drink?"

"Yeah." The judge looked up at the waiter and said, "How about a bottle of Ventana Semillon?"

The waiter nodded, smiled and left.

"Now. We've got Gregg put away, my foot's fine – okay, it's a little sore from the stitches – we've given our interviews to the cops. _Now_," Hardcastle leaned over the table to the younger man. "Why didn't you do what I _told _you to? You were _supposed_ to be heading for the road –" He broke off as the bottle of wine appeared.

The bottle was opened, the judge gave his approval of the sample, and the waiter gave them a little more time to decide on their orders.

"Good stuff." Mark took another sip.

"Yeah, it's a local place, kinda off the beaten path." Hardcastle stopped abruptly. "You did it again! How do you _do_ that?" He looked at the other man in concentration, then grinned in triumph. "I know – it's the eyebrows. I _finally_ figured it out. Every time you want to distract me, you say something and raise those eyebrows like you're asking a question and off I go. Well, it's not gonna work this time, ya hear? Now I've finally figured it out, it's – hold it."

McCormick hid a smirk by raising his wineglass to his lips.

"Okay." The judge put his hands flat on the table and said calmly, "I want to know what you were doing out there last night."

McCormick put down his glass and looked out at the bay, shining pinkly in the sunset. "You remember that barbed wire I had to move out of the road before we could leave?"

The judge grunted in assent.

"Well, I put it there because I figured if I stretched it across the road it would at least slow Gregg down and it might even give him a flat without having to use Ol' Millie. I'd just finished with it when I saw the truck coasting to a stop." Mark drank a little more wine. "So, I got behind a bunch of tall grass and watched him sneak down the lane to the house. Then I sneaked up behind him." He fidgeted with his napkin. "That's all."

"But you were gonna do what I told ya, right?" Hardcastle stared at him intently. "I mean, you were gonna follow the plan and get to the road? Why else would you give me your medal?"

Mark unconsciously put a hand up to touch the medal under his shirt. "Well." He cleared his throat and started over. "Well, I _thought _I was. But, you know, the whole time I was dragging that barbed wire, I was thinking." He looked out at a pelican soaring by and watched it glide to a landing on the dock nearby. "What you were doing was asking me to let somebody die for something _you _believe in. It's not the same as deciding to die _yourself_, or asking _me_ to die for it. You were making _me _responsible for somebody else dying for your cause. And I don't have the right to do that. Am I making any sense here?" McCormick looked at Hardcastle questioningly.

The judge thought for a few seconds, then said, "But I was asking you to let _me_ die for my _own_ principles. Don't I have the right to do _that_? I mean, if I think something's worth dying for, don't I have the right to sacrifice my life for it?"

"Yes, but you don't have the right to ask _me_ to be _responsible_ for your sacrifice. That's not fair."

The judge cocked his head to one side and considered that. "Okay, I know what you mean. I think." He wrinkled his nose and considered for a moment. "You mean there are things worth dying for, but it's got to be an individual choice. If you involve somebody else in the decision, especially somebody you know, it's asking too much. That about the size of it?"

"Yeah." Mark fingered the stem of his wine glass, then looked at Hardcastle. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's against _my _principles to be responsible for somebody else's death."

"Huh. Well, I guess I can understand that." Hardcastle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's not a bad principle to have."

"But it's not _your _principle." McCormick sighed and sipped at his wine again. He hesitated briefly, then said, "It's also that it was _you_, ya know? I mean, principles are great in the abstract, but when it's a real person and somebody that you –" He stopped abruptly, then resumed. "Somebody that you _know_ . . . it makes a difference. And I suppose it shouldn't."

The judge shrugged, then said casually, "Sure it's gonna make a difference. You're only human. Sometimes when you have to make that kind of decision, your principles take a back seat to your humanity."

"But if it'd been me with the bad foot . . ." McCormick stopped and forced a smile. "Hah. I can just hear it." He did his best Hardcastle imitation. "Now, stay here, McCormick. Just sit there, don't bleed all over everything, and shut up! And while you're sitting there, get this place cleaned up. It's a pigsty!"

Hardcastle snorted.

Mark still smiled, but it was rueful now. "You would've left me there, wouldn't you, Judge? You always do what has to be done."

Hardcastle shook his head. "I think I might've done pretty much what you did." He stared out the window at the bay and the hills fading in the sunset. "Principles aren't _everything_ that's important in life, ya know." He beckoned to the waiter. "We just have to do the best we can, and hope it turns out okay. You know what you want yet?"

"Yeah, I do." McCormick nodded contentedly. "And I know what I'm going to order, too."

finis


End file.
